


You're Guaranteed To Run This Town

by foundmyhome



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Past Captain Hook | Killian Jones/Milah, Pre-Canon, millian
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-23
Updated: 2016-03-23
Packaged: 2018-05-28 15:13:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6333991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foundmyhome/pseuds/foundmyhome
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When she sees him in the crowded tavern, his eyes narrow on her tear stained cheeks and she begs to be taken away.  For all the times it wasn't right, suddenly it is.  (Or my version of how Killian and Milah ran off together based off of canon)</p>
            </blockquote>





	You're Guaranteed To Run This Town

For the first time since she was a girl, Milah can’t shake the image of her mother from her mind.

Her mother was a brute of a woman, all strong edges and harsh words, but she had the softest hands. The first time Milah had gotten in a fight, it was her mother who gently wrapped her torn fist in cloth. She stroked her hair that night, while her father scolded her for disrespecting the boy she had beaten. Milah had thought that if her mother hadn’t been there, firmness and kindness interwoven intricately in her embrace, she would have absolutely exploded from the anger she felt.

It was her mother who taught her to be strong. To know that her strength started and ended within her. She taught Milah that the men in this world would fight because they could, but the women would fight because they had to. Milah learned to use words as daggers and daggers as weapons, learned to stand up for herself and for what she wanted in life. When her mother died, she told Milah she was proud of her strength, of what she was making for herself in the world.

Her mother would be ashamed of her now. “My daughter,” she would say, with a scowl and furrowed eyebrows, “Weaker now than you were as a babe.”

And she was, too. Milah was weak and she was tired. Tears had been marring her face since she stormed out of the cottage and the physical exhaustion of yet another one of her husband’s disappointing decisions felt heavy against her chest. She used to love him. It seems impossible to her now that she ever loved him as much as she’s sure she did.

She had mistaken his cowardice for gentleness; had thought his desperation was attentiveness. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to fight; no, she had gotten over the way he cried when he killed the animals for their meals, forgiven the way he maimed himself (and their future) during the war. It was the way he was too afraid to leave this horrible little village that trapped her with their gossip and hatred. She had no one, save a husband she didn’t love and her son.

And, gods, she loved her son. But she needed more in her life than to be a mother who couldn’t truly provide. No one would hire her because of the rumors of her husband. No one would set up playdates with Baelfire or trade pleasantries at the market. What life could she provide for her and her son, here, in this damned town that her husband wouldn’t leave?

So many times she wished to wrap Bae in his warmest cloak and disappear in the blanket of night. A new town, a new name, a new life. Every day she aches for it. But Bae loves his father, adores him endlessly, and the feeling is obvious mutual. She won’t take him from his father. She can’t.

The tavern is bright and warm when she pushes her way through the door. Eyes jump to her face and she flushes, wiping the sleeve of her smock against her face to clean it of tears and snot. She would feel embarrassed, but really, how many times has she run in here crying because of her miserable life? Her husband has been making her decisions for years; though this newest betrayal is deep and painful and the worst, it’s truly no surprise.

The heads that had snapped to her when she burst through the door go back to their conversations; Milah Gold crying, that’s hardly newsworthy. Barely even worth the ridicule anymore.

Except for one head; one pair of eyes, blue and deep and concerned, remain trained on her face.

She blames the sudden warmness that spreads through her on the fire burning in the corner of the tavern, of the muscle memory of how she’ll feel when she swallows her first gulp of whiskey.

But no matter. He might be pretty and kind and brave, but she had already told him no. He had already left her to be. The decision was made.

A voice that sounds so much stronger than she was whispered that if he was still here, it wasn’t too late.

She turns to the barkeep and orders a double.

She leans against the wooden table and empties her cup. The barkeep refills it silently.

“I didn’t think I’d see you again, love.” The pirate’s lilt is soft, but she still jumps when his breath ghosts over the sensitive skin on her neck. He smiles softly and takes a wide step back.

Milah turns to him fully, eyes raking from his pink cheeks to the smattering of black hair that rests above the red vest that so wonderfully wraps around his torso. She sips at the drink, slow this time, to buy time before she has to speak.

She wonders if she tells him to leave her alone, if he will. She thinks so.

“Turns out I needed another drink,” she says. He nods but an expression, nearly pained in its worry, flickers across his face before he can mask it.

He dips his head closer to her, tongue darting out to wet his lips. Milah folds her arms around her waist when her eyes track the motion.

“Are you alright, ma’am?” His voice is lower than before and she doesn’t realize she’s swaying towards him until they’re nearly touching. His hands raise but he stills them, frowning. She cocks her head and, with a shake of his head, he moves them towards her face, his thumbs wiping away the remaining tears on her cheeks. He drops them and takes another step away.

Milah can barely think straight with this man here. His very existence rattles her.

“Come, you’re shivering.” He leads her to the corner of the tavern closest to the fire and with a sharp nod, the other men at the table disperse. He gestures towards a chair and she sits. He grabs a jacket off the table, the long black leather already warmed from its proximity to the flames, draping it over her shoulders. It smells like spices and the sea, and quite without meaning to, she furrows deeper into the material.

“Thank you, Captain.” When was the last time someone had been so kind? Milah couldn’t remember. This town with their prejudice and her husband with his idiocy- the world either didn’t know that Milah was in need or it didn’t care. Not until he came around.

He drags his chair until it’s in front of her, the scraping of the wood nearly as loud as her beating heart. He drops into it and grins widely. “Now, there’s no need for such formalities, love. Call me Killian.”

Abruptly, she wants to run her fingers through his hair. Milah blinks away the thought. “I’m Milah.”

His grin softens until his lips are spread in a smile as gentle as his eyes. “I’m honored to meet you, Milah.”

She’s still shivering, but there’s no coldness to blame it on. She inhales deeply, running her hands over her face to scrub away the thoughts. He’s still watching her when she drops them back in her lap.

Killian tilts his head, teeth pressing into his bottom lip, and he gathers her hands in his. “Is it your boy?” He asks. “The ailing one?”

For the briefest of moments, everything stops.

Milah’s heart beat steadies and her mind clears and for just one minute, it’s as if every terrible thing that has happened in her life doesn't matter. It’s as if her parents never died, as if Rumple had never betrayed her, as if she was young and free and happy. Because this man, this stranger, has kind eyes and soft hands and remembers the words she whispered to him hours ago for no other reason than because he cared. Because though she’s turned him away, he still warms her, both with his jacket and his words, and she lets this moment wash over her, as if she is the sand being dragged into the ocean, a willing sacrifice for something so sweet and pure.

“He is safe,” she murmurs, her eyes clenched shut so she doesn’t see his beautiful face. “Thank you for remembering.”

His scoff is so surprising that her eyes jolt open. “It’s hardly been long enough for me to forget you, Milady.”

He looks brighter, like he did when they first met and he told her of the spiced lands he’d visited. The left corner of his lips keeps tipping upwards and his eyes are flickering across her face so rapidly it nearly makes her dizzy.

“I’m not used to having what I said be important enough to be remembered,” she murmurs, frowning when his face falls. She regrets saying that, would regret anything that made the light, happy gleam in his eyes darken.

He hunches his shoulders, leaning closer to her, one of his ankles wrapping around the leg of her chair to pull her closer to him yet. “Sweetheart,” he says softly, “You are more than enough.”

And maybe it’s their closeness, the heat radiating from the fire beside her and off of his body like maybe he, too, is composed of flames. Or maybe it’s the way he looks a little bit dangerous, but so fiercely kind. But she’s fairly certain it’s because this man, who has only known her for half a day, has read between the lines of her words so clearly, has seen her better than anyone in her entire, rotting life ever has.

Milah raises her hand, quickly before she can change her mind, and cups his jaw gently. His eyes flutter closed when she makes contact. “Take me with you,” she whispers.

Her request is meant with silence. His eyes dart across her face and his hand is shaking minutely when he presses it on top of hers on his face. 

He pulls away, pushing himself as far away as his chair will allow. His hands grab for purchase on the arms of the chair, finger clenched around the wood. With a locked jaw, he turns his attention to the fire. Although he looks fierce enough to resemble what she had always thought pirates were, his voice is honest and raw when he answers her.

“Milah, you’re upset. You don’t want this-”

“Don’t you tell me what I want Captain Jones.” She’s surprised by the venom in her voice, but she’s glad it’s there. This man is not her husband. This man will not take away her agency as he does.

But Killian only softens further, not angry or ashamed from her accusations. “No, love, I didn’t mean it like that. I should have been more careful with my words.”

Turning back to her, he offers her a smile. “Truly, lass, do you want to leave with me?” She’s about to answer without hesitation, quickly blurt out her glee to leave this terrible place, when he raises an eyebrow. “Leave your son? Merely hours ago you told me never. Has never really arrived so quickly?”

Shame blossoms in her chest and she tucks her head down to her chest. Of course she can’t leave Bae. He’s ill and he’s her son and she loves him. “No.”

“Aye, I didn’t think you could.” He uses two fingers to lift her head up until she can see his bright, ocean eyes again. He sighs, his teasing obvious from the dramatic nature of his huff, and asks, “Don’t suppose he’s old enough to be a pirate, now, is he?”

Milah laughs. “Not quite, no.”

Killian nods. He smiles at her, and she smiles back, the moment filled with their thoughts and wishes of maybes. He stands and kisses the top of her head quickly before taking several steps away. “I best be going now, ma’am.”

He turns to walk away but hesitates around at the end of the table. “I will be in port often, Milah. I hope the next time we meet, you are not sad.”

Milah’s heart flutters in her chest, the feeling like a scream in her veins. “Goodbye, Killian.”

When she leaves the tavern hours later, she folds his jacket neatly next to the fire where it will stay warm, with a hastily scribbled note reading Thank You.


End file.
